the bed a disaster area, her body exhausted and her pussy raw from a savage workout. The feeling was fantastic. Caron Archer was twenty-three years old and she had never felt anything like it before. She did it again the next night, and the night after that, and the night after that. Bars. Men. Motels. Night clerks began to nod familiarly when she staggered into their offices and asked for a room and a bucket of ice.
It went on for over a year. And then she turned to the opposite direction. The excesses began to sicken her, and she grew even more sick when she realized that she had no idea how many men she’d been with, where she’d gone, what she’d done. Vague flashes of memory came back to her, and they were worse than not remembering. Once she’d gone to a deserted spot on the beach with eight men. They all fucked her. In the mouth, in the asshole, in the pussy. She lay on a cum-stained blanket writhing and moaning, her body jerking as cock after cock slammed into her, and obscenities trickled from her mouth along with the spillage of jizz. “Fuck me,” she had moaned again and again, “Fuck me and fuck me and fuck me… I can fuck anything… I can fuck everybody… my whole body is a cunt… fuck all of me…”
For a long time she lived on the island, going out only in the daytime, only when it was absolutely essential. She didn’t touch liquor, didn’t talk to anyone, spent all her time reading. And masturbating. Furiously. Incessantly. With the same passion she had once hunted men.
She went through a health food and yoga period, growing her own organic vegetables even sublimating the urge to masturbate. At that time she was living on the remnants of her small inheritance. When Lou deserted her, he didn’t take his money with him, but the son of a bitch had neglected to make it easy for Caron to get her hands on the cash.
So Caron tried her hand at writing. She’d won some short story and essay contests in high school and in college. Under a pen name she sold eight paperback Gothics and earned the grand total of twenty-six thousand dollars. Using it carefully, she was able to get by.
Gradually she started to reach out again. The area population was fairly transient, people moving in and out regularly. She’d gotten herself a reputation a few years ago, but almost no one was around who remembered that Caron Archer had once been the motel queen of the middle Atlantic coast. She had affairs, refined affairs, conducted with restraint. Nothing serious. Not until Paul came along.
She met him innocently enough. The elderly lawyer in charge of the Archer file retired last year and his place was taken by a younger man, fresh out of law school, newly arrived in town. It had been months since the breakup of Caron’s last entanglement. She’d opened the gallery and it was doing very well, especially during the tourist season. She was nearing thirty, feeling a little old for the pulse of romance to be throbbing in her veins, but Paul took her to dinner one evening in order to discuss her rather unusual predicament, and they wound up in bed. Ii was so natural, so automatic, so—satisfying. Sometimes, Caron thought, it seems as if we’ve never gotten out of that bed. She stirred against him then, felt the responsive shudder of his rigid dong, and her tits tingled inside their little triangular bra cups.
Well, it was all working out. Finally. In three more weeks she would have the inestimable pleasure of hearing her Goddamned husband pronounced and officially dead by a judge of county court, and as Lou’s widow, she would finally inherit all his tied-up estate. And, she could cap the day by becoming Mrs. Paul Drake. It was definitely a day to look forward to.
Or did she want to get married again? Maybe it would be better just to live together. They were virtually doing that now. Of course, some of the overt aspects had had to be toned down, with Caron’s sister down for a visit, but she still saw Paul every day and they managed to get theirs with little trouble. Play it safe, Caron, she told herself. You’ve already gotten a second chance at life. You might not get a third.
His cock was hot and stiff in his pants and she realized that she didn’t care if she had him as his wife or as his woman. She wanted him, and she wanted him right now.
Breathing heavily, she pulled her lips free. She was hot with lust and her hands shook as she fought the tight little bra loose from her tits. She ran the backs of her fingers across her stiff, aching nipples, and it felt so good. Caron closed her eyes and moaned, rocking back and forth on her feet.
Paul’s hands came up, in, replaced hers. He squeezed her tits forcefully, yet with the gentleness she found so attractive in him, and Caron thrust her boobs into his hands, still moaning, still rocking. “Oh,” she whispered, “it feels good, it feels so Goddamned goooooooooodddddd…”
He leaned in, pushed aside the long falls of her sun kissed brunette hair, baring her smooth golden shoulders. The tip of his wet tongue brushed the taut skin of her neck, slid up to lick her earlobe, then ranged down again. His hands flexed on her tits and the nipples, were burning coals against his pliant palms. Caron gasped and shivered, as if she had suddenly grown very cold. But she wasn’t. She was hotter than the sun which blazed like a red glowing ball in the westward sky. She was hotter than the fires of hell, where her unlamented husband Louis was almost certainly being fried to a crisp at this very moment. Her hand slid down Paul’s front and she was holding him possessively by the outlined bulge of his erect dick, the erection her body’s silky touch had stirred to vibrant life. She worked him with her fist, making sure he didn’t get soft now, and she was rewarded.
She danced away from him, skipping to the edge of the patio where windblown sand impinged on the tiles. He moved toward her, and she laughed, untying the string which held up the bottom part of her bikini. It slithered down her legs, left her totally naked, totally ready. She reached down, smoothing that part, pushing hairs aside to show him the rich, almost purple cleft of her slit. Her finger stroked up and down the well-defined slice, one green- painted nail slipping inside ever so slightly. Paul made a husky choking sound deep in his throat and he came toward her, fast, unbuttoning his shirt as be walked. Caron stepped onto the sand, into the sunlight past the patio roof, and her body seemed to glow on invitation. He threw off his shirt, reached quickly for the belt of his trousers. There was a snap and a zip and he let his pants fall. He moved again, toward Caron, the ruby head of his cock thrusting out through the slit of his boxer shorts. Another step, and his whole stiff prick poked forth, wobbling as he moved. Caron laughed and started to run, naked, down the beach, toward the foamy incoming tide. Hers long hair streamed like a banner behind her and she stretched out her arms as if she were welcoming the kiss of the cool blue sea.
She looked back over her shoulder. Paul was following, stumbling as he let his shorts drop and kicked them loose. She threw herself into the ocean, right into the force of an incoming wave, and she nestled in the foamy shallows as she waited for him. She panted with lust and she kept stroking her hot wet tits and their stiff, poking nipples. “Hurry,” she said languidly. “Hurry before I melt.”
He joined her at the waters edge, his arms surrounding her like a spider web. “Right here,” she announced. “Fuck me in the surf. Just like Burt Lancaster and Deborah Kerr in FROM HERE TO ETERNITY.”
“They didn’t even take off their bathing suits,” he pointed out as Caron got her fist around his stiff, hungry cock.
“Then they must have been uncomfortable as hell,” Caron laughed. She lay down on the sands, a target for the incoming waves which washed blue and foamy across her. Her legs were spread and she touched herself between them, fingering her eager slice.
He looked back up the beach. For Sheila? Oh, damn it! Caron thought. Sheila was busy with her painting. God love the girl, at least she had a hobby, even if she didn’t have much else to call a life. Twenty-six years old, going on twenty-seven, pretty as could be, and she’d never even been in love, never known even the peculiar thrill that heartbreak could leave in its softening aftermath. “Don’t worry about Sheila,” Caron advised, and she reached for his cock, where it pointed up from the patch of hair between his legs. His prick was smooth and hard, like the rest of his body. She liked that. And, God, what it could do to her! Caron pulled on his dick and he slid down atop her. She spread her legs to accommodate him, and they fought in the foamy waves, both of them battling toward the same end. The very point, of him touched her juicy cunt lips, parted them, and then he came down hard, burying himself in her churning depths.
“Aaaaaaagggghhhhhhhhhh!” Caron squealed, her arms and legs flapping in the water. “Oh, God, Jesus, do itttttt!” He’s only just started, she thought, and I feel like I’m ready to come! What other man had ever done that much for me?
Lou certainly hadn’t. Sex with him was a dim, dreary memory, one she called to mind as infrequently as possible. When he crawled upon her in bed, it was for a perfunctory fuck. She made the right noises, the right moves under him, but he had a tendency to stroke hard and fast, pumping till he came, then rolling off her, weary. Maybe, she thought as Paul began to pound her hard in the surf—maybe getting abandoned was the best thing that ever happened to my marriage!
She’d been cold when she was Lou’s wife, but now she could almost climax just by remembering Paul’s cock
